


Adorn Me with Colour Crimson

by Ronalee



Series: After Hours [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftercare, Age Difference, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Blood Drinking, Blood and Injury, Care of Magical Creatures, Caretaking, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Coming of Age, Consensual Non-Consent, Consent, Dark Magic, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Magic, Magic Revealed, Magical Accidents, Medical Conditions, Medical Examination, Medical Procedures, Medical Torture, Needles, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slavery, Teen Angst, Uninformed Consent, Vampires, mind-reading
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26126650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ronalee/pseuds/Ronalee
Summary: (For sexy wounds, ref. Chapter 3)Once upon a time, a vampire cared for a human bloodslave, and the abnormal world was forever changed.Born in a hidden human village untainted by abnormal forces, Louis was the only survivor after a bloodshed with sorcerers. Narrowly escaping death, he was captured and kept alive, only to be sent to Transylvania as a gift to the vampires because of the unique purity of human blood. There he was kept healthy and well-fed at all times as the castle owner’s personal bloodslave. Yet no one could have foreseen the event on his 18th birthday: he was brought along as the lord vampire’s provision to a battle with werewolves. And when the beasts drew too close, he annihilated the entire pack of enemies with one episode of panic attack.Vampires were stunned, werewolves were traumatised, and the vampire - well, he was intrigued. Feeding from Louis on a daily basis did not make the boy any less inscrutable in his youth. Louis was struggling with his awakening magic, and powers in the abnormal world were shifting. He would change the course of their future, but the vampire owned his life.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: After Hours [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897054
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	1. Prologue: The Vanishing

**Author's Note:**

> For weeks I’ve found myself creating the same sequence of scenes before giving in to sleep. Now I’m indulging myself to put them down in words. 
> 
> An insomniac’s waking wet dreams disguised as writing exercises. Melodrama, gender studies tropes, unreliable psychoanalysis, and pretentious harangues. I hope others could enjoy them too. 
> 
> POVs in bold.

**The Vampire**

“He is gone, Sire.” 

So he died during the day. Damn the witch doctor. We had released her at dawn, after she had claimed that it was merely a “weakness of heart”, that the child would wake up from stupor in no time. “Just let him rest. His body needs it.” So we did. And now whatever dream he had was his last. I could barely contain my anger. Did escaping this deathtrap of a castle seem more urgent to her than saving a life? Was no curer anymore required of the basic reverence to their vocation? After centuries of witnessing similar acts of desertion, this no longer surprised me. The reared instinct to care and honour other lives overpowered by a far more primeval one, the one to preserve the life of one’s own. Still I felt revulsion.

“When was this?” And more importantly, how was it? How did it happen? Did he die alone? Was his bearing his usual pale complexion, the one he so often wore whenever under stress or duress? Was his whole body shaking uncontrollably, as if my presence was so pervasive, so inescapable, that his limbs would succumb to it even in my absence, as death drew near? Was he overjoyed, to be finally freed from living hell into the realm of oblivion, so that death itself was merely an innocuous offering for the sake of quid pro quo? For a moment, I allowed myself to envy him, like many others would between these walls. What was more blissful than the taste of his blood - the delicacy undecided between mellow and piquant - was the everlasting peace, one our kind is forever denied of. 

“He was last seen late in the afternoon, at twilight. A servant went to air the room then and he was still in bed, asleep. When we went to fetch him earlier this evening for your feeding, the bed was made but he was not in.”

I drew in a breath. “Someone stole the body, you mean?”

“The body? Oh no no, Sire,” realisation hit the squire, making him fluster. “He is not dead, only, unaccounted for.”

“Unaccounted for.” I repeated. “Do we not have enough men to find one human under our own roof?” 

The squire was scratching the bite mark on his neck. “Orders have been sent, Sire. We will find him in no time and bring him here.”

Before he finished the sentence I was striding out the door. I could not stand it. It was a quarter to midnight, and after yesterday’s fiasco, well, temporary fiasco, until the little blood sack had gone off and scorched all the dogs to ashes - how he had done it still confounded me, and an interrogation was now way overdue because of his subsequent unconsciousness - I was famished, and I could not start the day without my usual wake-up drink.

His room, one floor below mine in the east wing, was the most unwanted room in the castle, given its relentless exposure to the sun. Dark as it was now, the remaining stench of daytime hours assailed my senses, the odour of dried mites often mistaken for the fragrance of sunlight. But even the intrusion of this unpleasant olfactory interlude could not disrupt the symphony of sweetness that filled the small space with the most enchanting melodies. Every breath of air a siren’s whisper. The squire hissed, baring his fangs. He tried to gather himself when I turned, not wanting to be caught coveting what was mine, to no avail. I did not open my mouth to blame him, because just another draw of breath could be my undoing. The craving, the lust, the urge to drench my teeth in nectar. Footsteps sounded and stopped as others started to linger in the tiny room’s doorway, until the squire finally closed the door behind us. Vampires are the most seasoned predators that roam this earth, and none of us could resist so strong a temptation.

Yet the prey himself was not in sight. His smell an apparition left behind to haunt our thirst. I found myself growing agitated, the ends of my fingers tingling. I felt tricked. The deer was toying with the hunter, hiding when knowing full well there was no way to hide. I started to scan the room. The human boy did not own many things. His clothes were folded neatly on the shelves next to the bed. The bedsheet had been smoothed out, the blanket draped over, though the dampness of the fabric was unmissable. Sleep usually made him soak in sweat. Never had I ever met someone so prone to nightmares and night terrors. Seeing what duties he had at night, I could hardly blame him. The servants often found him clutching the blanket and screaming when they went to fetch him in the middle of the night, and by the time he was walked to mine, his mind still foggy and bearing the fragments of his private nighttime horror, too disorienting to read even for a skilled mind reader like myself - I would have to soothe him, guide him to breathe, slowly, in and out, so he could stay still for me to better sink my teeth into his veins - the ones on his wrists, usually. He seemed to have the least trouble staying calm about those ones, compared to blood vessels in other areas of his body. One bite on his neck and he would swoon, adding bitterness to the spring water from my own private well of ecstasy. Adrenaline and acetylcholine combined is never a good taste. 

There were times when I could collect some driftwood from the perils in his sea of slumber. The most discernible image I had caught glimpse of so far was of his parents, unmoving in a pool of blood, with thatched houses burning behind them. The battle. The massacre. The day his life was forever changed. Was this the only piece of memory left of his childhood? Beside the one item he carried from that past? That... 

“Leather-bound bible. Was it in here when they first came this afternoon? Did someone take it?” 

“Well, I’m not sure, Sire. I could hardly think so. Who else would have use for it except the human himself?” 

Suddenly, I knew where he was.


	2. The Innocence of Blood, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spectacular pain? Pleasure in the performative? With a tiny dose of gore.

** The Vampire **

The chapel loomed at the end of the corridor. Apart from the surplus of sunlight which applied to all rooms at this side of the castle, no vampire set foot in it for more obvious reasons. It had been installed and furnished by the previous generations of human owners, and for centuries, we had failed to demolish it. On many an occasion I led myself to believe that the room had to be kept for the sake of architectural integrity, that being built neither directly on ground or below ceiling meant it was technically impossible to eradicate. But deep down, and especially on moments like this, when a living being was finding solace behind the carved wooden door, in what I could not bring myself to ever face - the inexorably palpable existence of what was holy, promising a much more blessed afterlife than the one I am cursed with - I knew the real reason. Neither I nor the others could ever bear to face the testimony to our ethereal frailty, our eternal damnation. Consequently, the chapel remained untouched, like a malign tumour that even the best of surgeons could do nothing about but steer away their scalpels. 

It was not his thoughts that reassured me of his close presence. It was the pungent smell of blood - not the sweet scent I was used to when fresh nourishment oozed out from neat teeth marks on his wrists, but a different, less pleasant one, one that reeked of despair, of a fragile mortal body turning sapless. And it was flooding out from behind the door in waves. He was losing blood. A lot of blood. What was going on? I gave the door a nudge with my fingertip, not wanting to startle him. It did not budge. He must have locked it from inside. 

Growing frantic, I searched his mind. The images I saw seemed so irrelevant to the situation at hand that, for a second, I was uncertain about my mind-reading abilities - until a familiar face emerged from the chaos. A woman touching his cheeks with wrinkled hands, mumbling something not intelligible enough to reach my own consciousness in coherence. It was the witch doctor. I could make out the word “fever”, but the fear, and - most of all, _shame_ \- that I detected from his mind was so disproportionately strong that I was certain the noun of common symptom was taken out of context. What could she possibly have said to disturb him so? 

The more confused I grew, the more agitated I became. I turned to the squire, who was standing very still, his muscles tight like bowstrings desperate to release momentum. He smelt the blood too, no doubt, and was having a hard time hiding his craving. I spoke, louder than I intended, “Go fetch the key in my room. Nightstand, bottom drawer. Clear the east wing and the floor above.” Judging by the way he was clenching his teeth behind closed lips, this particular squire would not be the only one having trouble controlling their thirst, and I did not want to risk meeting others with less self-control. He paused, for only a second, then scurried away obediently. 

I knocked on the door, “Louis,” I called gently, “open up now.” I listened for any movement inside, and when there was none, I looked for his mind. Blankness. Maybe I frightened him. “It’s all right. It’s only me. And I will make sure it stays that way if you let me in. Come now. Be good.” Still nothing. A mortal might start to think at this point that he was dead, but I knew better thanks to my acute senses. There were heartbeats, though weaker than I would have liked. More silence. Then suddenly, there was a swish, a crisp sound of leather bouncing off skin, and my whole attention darted towards a tinge of aroma I knew too well. Fresh blood.

“Whatever you are doing, stop it this instant.” I demanded, louder this time. I began to batter the door in earnest then, the wood cracking against my elbow. There were quick footsteps from behind, too light to register for mortals’ ears. The squire appeared at my side, producing a bundle of fabric. I reached for it impatiently. “Sire,” “I know, leave us now.” I was eager to send him on his way. _Away_. 

“That half-bred maid, tell her to bring hot water to my room. And bandages. I don’t have them upstairs.” He nodded. A second later he was gone. I folded the fabric open, revealing the silver key. My fingers prickled against the malicious metal, even though my skin was not touching it. Holding it through the cloth I thrusted it inside the keyhole. The door opened with a creak. 

He stirred, but barely. I could feel his mind slowly waking. But instead of pain, or the usual feigned calmness he presented for my reading whenever I was near, what filled his thoughts at this very moment was inexplicable yet unwavering determination. How curious. I ventured a step across the threshold. Already I could feel the dread building inside me, like lead being loaded into someone who was already drowning. It was dark inside, the dim moonlight dripping through the painted glass, leaving a puddle of brightness on the alter. The alter. I shut my eyes, barely in time. If I was to gain any more movement in this room, I would have to keep my eyes closed. Desperate to see the boy as I was, there was no way around the anathema. I would have to use my other senses instead, which would add no extra difficulty to my task. My nostrils flared in agreement. This should be easy.

Slowly I moved on the marble floor, past the rows of pews. The scent was coming from the front, not directly under the crucifix but near enough. Heavy breaths, a rustle of hair. I could see myself in his mind’s eye as he turned tentatively backward, only briefly, before dropping his gaze again. In the corner of this new vision I saw, for the first time, what he was holding. A vicious thing, its tail coiling beside his right knee like a viper, tasting the blood spattered on the white marble floor.

“Stay where you are. Lift up your hands,” I said. When I heard some movement I knew he was complying. I stepped forward towards the leathery scent, took the whip from his hand and tossed it aside, away from him. The little fool. Was he planning on flailing himself to death, in here, of all places? If he had no respect for his life, surely this should be the least appropriate place to prove it, sinful as suicide was. Knowing him, I was certain he would do no such thing to risk impiety. What _did_ he have in mind then, exactly? 

I looked for answers in his thoughts. But what I found there took me aback. 

_ Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis. _

He  _ was  _ determined then. He had set his mind to death. So determined was he that he was singing, internally, his own requiem.

It startled me when the acrid smell abruptly drew near. “Stay still,” I warned. But instead it only grew stronger, the piquancy of congealed blood lunging at me. Through his mind’s eye I followed his hand as it swept the marble, collecting the thick substance on his fingertips. Then, with perfect aplomb, he let them brush against the skin on his left wrist, like a painter leaving a final stroke on his masterpiece. 

_ Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem. _

He presented the wrist forward, freshly adorned with colour crimson, inches away from my mouth. Only now did I realise that my lips were slightly parted, my fangs protruding, though from danger, or shock, or - the strongest of all - lust, I could not tell. 

_Bite me_. I heard him murmur in his head. _Kill me,_ _Drain me this time as you would a lamb. Grant me peace. Only death will wash away my sins._

I found my mouth on his skin.


	3. The Innocence of Blood, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolor y gloria. Pain and glory.*
> 
> Blood, sexy wounds, a magician’s self-punishment, and a vampire’s moral conundrums. The worst in the good. And the best in the bad. 
> 
> *Don’t look at me! It was Pedro himself who had, with all those films, left a considerable amount of dubious imagery in my head over the past few months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve always held the belief that one should never be scandalised by one’s own creation. But rereading this chapter almost made me waver. 
> 
> “Edel sei der Mensch, hilfreich und gut.” Thank you Johann Wolfgang for trying to ease my mind.

**Louis**

I thought I was in heaven.

There were no unique physical sensations, then again I never expected any. Why confine yourself to the pleasure of body, when the purest bliss - the bliss of eternal serenity - would be granted you, the moment your soul transcends earthly boundaries? 

My vision was bleary. It was bright at the end of the tunnel, pale and comforting, like a lighthouse promising safety on an expanse of dark sea. Was this what death felt like? I chuckled, though no sound came from my mouth. Of course. What was my body now but a pile of meat, something disposable, something I had already disposed of. I laughed again. What irony. In the end, it was down to the evilest of creatures to hand me my peace, to obliterate that part of me: the power only a living body could contain, the same power they had drawn on to kill my family. And now, as if in jest, I was cursed with the one thing that had bereft me of my parents, back on a distant day so many years ago. 

But why dwell on troubles from that transient life, I thought. It was gone now. All gone. I was rid of it. I was free.

**The Vampire**

I was halfway through the east hall when he stirred and started to shudder. The curtains to the side had been drawn during daytime. Now they remained closed, since no one in this castle would have preferred otherwise. But at the end of the hallway, moonlight shone through the glass window, flowing down onto the stone floor. His arms loosened around my neck.

“Hold on to me. Stay still.” I whispered in his ear. He was still awake. Good.

After a second of confusion, I saw something else in his mind. Disbelief. The little fool. He thought he was dead. That I had killed him. Then, suddenly, panic flooded his thoughts.

_ Where is he taking me ?  _

“To the bedroom. My bedroom.” I answered the voice in his head. 

He grew very still. His whole body tensing. Pulse quickening.

“Breathe, Louis,” I said, but his mind turned fuzzy again, not responding to my words. “It’s going to be all right. Relax.” 

He was quiet for a moment, then licked his lips. When was the last time he had drunk? No wonder he passed out earlier, though fear probably did something too. I made a mental note to give him water before starting to work on him. Or he would sure be falling unconscious again. 

When we reached upstairs, the floor was empty. Under the thick velvet of the savoury fragrance coming directly from under my chin, a faint, different scent of warm blood lingered in the air. My stomach churned in response. A few drops of plonk was enough to spoil the best of wine. The half-bred maid’s impure blood had temperature, but roused nothing inside me. How could I settle for anything less palatable, when I was in possession of the finest ambrosia? At least she had dropped off the things I needed. At that thought, I turned my attention back to the boy in my arms. He was in limbo. His mind half foundering, half empty. 

In one motion, I leapt to my door, tightening my arms around him. Once inside, I cradled his body as I eased him onto the woollen carpet. Leaning him against the footboard, I picked up the dressing gown from my bed and tore off a strip of silk. Crouching down, I wrapped the makeshift rope around his wrists, then fixed them to the bedpost, letting his hands rest on the mattress. He shifted forward, propping his head on the wooden piece. All the while he was not resisting me, his eyes bleary. I filled a wine glass with lukewarm water, then pressed the rim to his parched lips. “Drink,” I said softly, and when he made no move, I held his head and tilted it backward, his artery now exposed before me like fresh meat thrown in front of a starving beast. A small sound escaped him. “What was that? Actually, don’t try to speak now.” He wouldn’t have to. Similar situations in the past had proved mind-reading to be a particularly useful ability, especially during my early years into this new life. Back then I had still been practising medicine on a much more regular basis. I had fixed up the wounded between battles, and, in the dark, given those I thought were good and capable a second life - most of their thoughts had been in thin threads when the time had come, but you would be surprised to see how easy it sometimes was to judge a person’s character by their deathbed thinking. I reached out for his mind. 

_ Oh, what’s there to wait? Get it over with. Just get it over with. _

“I can’t, not if you don’t swallow,” I replied, pouring another sip of the tepid liquid into his mouth. 

_ What’s he even doing this for? Would I taste better once I’m hydrated? Why didn’t he do it earlier, back there? At least I could’ve gone with it on my terms. On the wrist. _

“I am not feeding on you tonight. Now drink.” I said. This was the harshest I had spoken to him that evening. I was fuming with so much anger that, for a moment, I felt an impending implosion. There was bitterness in my voice too, though I could not quite tell why. 

He made a small grumbling sound. Oh dear. Don’t start choking. Not now. But then I could hear the muscles around his pharynx loosening, and the sound of water flowing down his throat. Putting the glass on the nightstand, I turned to the door and ran down the corridor. In the study, I retrieved my medical kit from the top shelf. It was covered in dust. When was the last time I had used this? Ages ago, it must be, though I replaced the bottle of surgical alcohol every few months out of old habit. What was I planning to do with it? What was I even thinking?

When I opened the bedroom door again, he was sagging against the bed, lifeless, like a stunned animal being bled out. Well, that would not happen. Not tonight. “Louis,” I called, touching his forehead with the back of my head. It was burning, even though his body was shaking so hard, like he was sitting on ice. 

“Sit up. Kneel for me if you can. I need you to stay up and very still. Do you hear me?” When he showed no intention to move, I slipped one arm under his shoulder and the other under his waist, lifting him up to adjust his position so he could sit on his heels. I wet the cloth that came with the bucket with water, then ran it down his back. He winced slightly. From the touch, as his mind told me - not pain. He was too groggy to register pain at this point. “What did I say about being still? And stay awake. I need to know what your body feels,” I admonished. When I rinsed the wipe, the water in the bucket turned red. Only then did I realise how my thirst had been kept at bay all this time, ever since I had licked his wrist - the offering of a martyr - clean of the old blood that had been strategically applied there. But once he had been in my arms, his blood, exuding sweetness even when dried, I had been viewing it not as food, but a silent accusation. A medical challenge, no doubt, but also one of a different nature that was far more demanding. A moral one. Listen to me. A bloodsucking monster, dwelling on his conscience over a victim he had repeatedly assaulted. Yet why was every part of me wanting to keep him alive? Was it for his sake, or mine? All this effort out of instinct, was it something else, something frighteningly unfamiliar - or just the good old bloodsucking monster, lurking in my subconscious, urging me to preserve my ailment?

A soft groan drew me back from my Freudian self-reflection. It was not the right time. I forced my focus back onto the matter at hand. Thanks to the water I had made him drink, the boy’s mind was beginning to grow sharper now. Fear and panic filled his thoughts.  _Pain, pain pain,_ he screamed in his head. I drew in a breath. He needed painkillers, or it would be a matter of minutes before he passed out. But if he was magical - and seeing just  _how_ magical he had been the previous day - no human painkiller would work on him, and there was no time to fetch back the witch doctor for some potion that would take hours to braise. For a moment I was at a loss, then an idea hit me. I sank my teeth into my left wrist, leaving two dark dots on the pale surface, then brought it to his mouth. “Drink,” I said, “One drop only.” 

_No_. His eyes were squeezed shut, but the words in his mind were unmistakable.  _No. Leave me to die. I would rather die._

This was preposterous. I did not have time for this. Fine, then. He made his choice. I fished out the cloth from the bucket, wrung it out - the water had grown into a deeper colour by then - before dousing it with surgical spirit. “Listen. I need you to stay very still. This is going to hurt, but I need you to know that it is not meant to. And you have to relax. Or it will be worse.” His mouth was twitching, his teeth biting on his bottom lip so hard it drew blood. “Bite on this,” I ripped the wipe in half, and stuffed some into his mouth. Tears filled his eyes. “Deep breath now.”

As I dabbed the remaining bit of cloth on his skin, along the raw, crimson whip marks, he was pulling on the restraint with all the strength he could afford. It did nothing but leave him panting. “Stay still, breathe slowly. Or I will have to force feed you my blood. Would you rather I do that?” I warned, trying hard to keep my voice calm. That got his attention. Immediately he stopped. Only muffled whimpers escaped from his gagged mouth.

I let the rag fall into the bucket. By this point, my bedroom was saturated with the scent of alcohol and blood - from fresh, to diluted, to dry. Red in every possible shade. The thousands of tenuous threads weaving into a cocoon, capturing me. The strange mixture, the dichotomy of mellowness and pungency, mingling into something so self-contradictory it addled my mind like a heavy dose of morphine. I shook my head involuntarily. It was too much. Too much blood. I needed to stop the bleeding. I heated the needles above the fire. Louis was sitting right beside the hearth, and although weaves of heat emitted from it, he was still shaking incontrollably. From cold, pain, panic. He was not going to last long. I recalled the last time he had been in such a state, and how it had ended with hundreds of incinerated mammal corpses. Simply passing out would be easier. If he went off again like the day before, it would bring this entire castle down. I needed to think of a way to help him stay calm. And I needed it fast.

He lifted his head slightly and caught sight of the needles.  _Not those, please_ , he pleaded silently. Then I saw all the flashbacks in his head, of the stitches he had taken as a child. It was torture for him, to have sharp objects piercing his skin. That explained his utter dread during the feeding sessions. It was the one physical sensation he feared the most. Not of dying, but this. I almost felt like laughing. This was so true, yet so silly that I found it hard to believe. He had not winced once when inflicting pain on himself, but it was the fixing up part that made him queasy? Reading his incoherent thoughts, I saw the word  _mercy._ He was begging me.

“Hey, look at me,” I coaxed, “I know what you are thinking. And no. I don’t enjoy this in the slightest,” no matter how much iniquitous pleasure he was now accusing me of in his head, this much was true. Every time I delved into a mind too deep, as I did then, it would stretch my scope of empathy. I could feel everything he was feeling. I was suffering as much as he was. Not a single ounce of agony was spared. I needed to distract him, for his but also for my own good. “And I need you to listen to me. Count backward from one hundred, in a foreign language. Latin, perhaps, if you prefer. You seemed rather good at it earlier.” I allowed my mind to wander back to the little liturgy he had delivered just hours before, right in front of me. All this farce. I promised to myself that, once this was all over, I would make him pay for it.

“Start counting,” I ordered, “do not move no matter what happens. Trust me.” Why should he, but what choice did he have? “You know me. You know how I move. It will be quick. It will be over before you know it.”

_Please_ ,  he screamed silently.

And, after that, no more thoughts came. 

**Louis**

I woke up with a shiver. The air around me smelled like cedarwood, covering the trace of iron rust. But still it was detectable. Blood. My own blood. I was lying on my side, the bed beneath me soft and warm, like a thick cloud basking in sunlight after a fit of heavy rain. The firewood cracked languorously, puffing out waves of hazy heat. Every molecule in the room hummed of comfort.

But why was I feeling a chill in my stomach? I opened my eyes. 

That was when I saw it.

A marble white arm, clinging to my chest. 


	4. A Nightmare: Extract

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good night. Sweet dreams. An exhausted vampire is trying to lure his human boy back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I abandoned the plot-related bit midway and finished the falling-asleep part first. Because I’m feeling drowsy. Not worth pulling an all-nighter when there’s no deadline I suppose. So much for writer’s discipline.
> 
> PS guys (that’s assuming anyone’s reading this silly piece at all), as I said before: Any feedbacks and suggestions - on plot, language, style or otherwise - would be most appreciated. I’ve never shown my writing of this nature to anyone until now, and I’d find it very helpful to know if it’s tolerable.

**Louis**

  
At first they were animal-shaped. Werewolves, engulfed in flames. Then they started to shrink, move. Morphed into humans. I blinked. Do they all die in their human forms? Then there were only two of them. I recognised them, even though my eyes were blurred from the heat, the heat that was melting their faces. My parents were shrieking. I had killed them.

A hand fell on my shoulder. I didn’t acknowledge it. I was screaming like my life depended on it. Voice poured out from me, like a flood, trying to quench the fire in my stead. But all it did was drowning _me_. The hand on my shoulder shook me gently. Who was it? It could be a ghost for all I care. What more harm could it do to me, when I felt as good as a living corpse myself, all shrouded in the smoke from my parents’ burning ashes?

“Louis,” a voice called.

I turned back.

I felt trapped. At first I thought it was the fabric. I was swaddled in something delicate. Something not mine. Then there was the thing clutching my arm, pressing me down like someone was going to make a chop at me. My eyes were still closed, but I was vaguely aware that it had all been a dream earlier. Was this part of the same dream too? Some ghoul my brain had cooked up to weigh on me?

“Hey, easy. Stay still.” The voice lulled. I jerked awake. This was a nightmare, no doubt. A different nightmare. A living nightmare.

My eyes were rheumy. I could smell smoke. There was a fire burning somewhere. Maybe that was why the fire in my dream had smelt so real. I tried to wipe at my eyes. Cold fingers caught my hand before I could lift it. 

“Nothing is caught on fire. It is only the hearth. You are having a fever. Go back to sleep.” Fingers ran through my curls. Rubbing my scalp gently. I flinched away.

“Don’t touch me.” I said to the creature behind, my back turned. His fingers stilled in my hair.

Morning light leaked from the edges of the heavy brocade curtains, spilling onto the wall, making the floral patterns on the damask wallpaper glisten. At the foot of the bed a fire exhaled, casting shadows on the floor that bobbed up and down, like awkward dancers. Every muscle in my body ached. The arm and leg under me felt numb. I needed to turn, but I didn’t want to face the what was behind me.

“Let me help you turn onto your other side. Careful with your back. Lie on your stomach first. There you go,” he rolled me like a lion would its kill.

His face was inches away from mine. We were sharing a pillow, as I had just realised. Even in the dim light his skin looked pale. Not the kind of pale you see in the morgue, but at the funeral, where a dead countenance is cleaned and powdered to imitate life in a peaceful sleep. His nose long and delicate. His cheekbones were chiseled like freshly sharpened blades. His brows, now slightly furrowed, hung above the eyes that stared, a bit too intently, into mine. He was reading my mind again. I wished he’d stop. The gray in his irises was fading, the blue starting to resurface. So he had fed on me after all.

“No, it was animal blood. Lamb, as a matter of fact, per your latest request I guess. I did not drink much. I was,” he mused, “not used to it. Having you here has spoilt me.”

I closed my eyes again. My head was foggy. It was too much. Being this close to him was like hovering over the edge of an abyss. One that would suck you in if you didn’t jump first yourself.

“Enough with the thoughts. Go back to sleep.”

“It’s morning,” I retorted. It could be high noon for all I knew. With the curtains drawn you could never tell the time of day. Lair of the monster. It suited him well.

“You need to rest, and I need some sleep too. Yesterday was rather eventful. I may be fast, but I am old. It was too much excitement for one night, my boy.” He gave a hiss in amusement. “Now go back to sleep before the pain comes back.”

My stomach clenched at his words. Memory of ordeal from the previous night still lingered in my head. But the same nerves that tortured me now lay quiet, dozing. I tried to raise myself, but he held me down firmly.

“Look, you were unconscious. And I did not have a choice. You could not have stayed asleep for long otherwise. You were weak and it was too much pain to cope with.”

I struggled against his arm.“Let go of me.” I pulled out my right arm from under me and started to pry at his fingers. It was like bending iron with bare hands.

“Relax, stay down. Or I will make you drink it again, I swear.”

I was disgusted. Had I not proven myself dirty enough? After the sickening magic that bursted out from me, that made me kill just as I had seen it done before, could he just not resist sullying me more with his own cursed blood?

“The witch doctor will give you something. She is coming this evening. Just go to sleep now. Please.”

“Do you want something from me?”

“I want you to sleep.”

“In that case, I will go sleep in my room. Have your servants fetch me if you need me. Or you could have some now.” I tried to rise again. His arm tightened.

“Do you think I will let you out of my sight again? After what happened?”

Why, are you afraid I’ll use that magic to burn this place down? Oh believe me, even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. I want nothing to do with it, whatever it is or where it comes from. It’s not mine. I don’t want it.

“Not what you did to the wolves, no. I meant what you did last night, to yourself.”

I laughed. It made my lungs hurt, but I couldn’t help it. Maybe he _was_ spoiled. Not ready to let your well go dry yet, are you?

“Oh for h…”, he stopped short, catching himself. The poor monster. He couldn’t ever use that word again. “Just sleep, will you? Stop being such a handful.”

Oh well, why not. Maybe it’ll happen this time. Maybe I’ll die in my sleep. This will be the last time I see you.

He let out a deep sigh.

The last thing I felt was a hand patting my thigh. Rhythmically, like a mad poet tapping out metres on a lover’s skin.


End file.
